Chapter Forty
CHAPTER FORTY
BONNIE
“I’ll schedule a moving van for tomorrow afternoon,” she says, hands in her pockets as she pauses on the threshold. “This is a good thing, Bonnie.”
I sigh, peering around the space. “I know. This place holds so much…”
It’s seen me break, recover, fall, stumble, regroup, and stand at the door too many times with my keys in my hand.
“Do you need me to stay tonight?” she asks.
I should.
However, there’s something I need to take care of, and Gemma can’t be here when I do it.
And while I’m terrified of the walls closing in, of the spiral I’m sitting on the edge of, I need to do this. I need to talk to my stalker, to somehow completely cut her off, not to mention there’s a nagging in the back of my head telling me to prove my fears wrong. I can handle this on my own. People don’t have to continue checking in on me. I should be able to get it together by myself, claw out of this pit, and continue taking steps toward my goals without someone offering me a rope.
“I’m okay,” I say, leaning against the door frame. “I promise. I’m just going to be packing. Watching television… I promise I’m okay. I could use some alone time.”
Gemma’s jaw tenses as if she doesn’t entirely believe me, though she doesn’t push it.
“Okay,” she says.
I smile at her. “You don’t like it.”
“No,” she says. “Every part of me wants to insist you let me stay, and I camp out on the couch.”
“I’m okay,” I insist. “Go home.”
“If you need me…”
I lean up on my toes and kiss her softly, ceasing any ramblings left on her lips. She sighs into me and presses her hand to my cheek, and as the sparks set off in my head, we part.
Gemma strokes my face with her thumb once more. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Text me if you need me. Please. I’m not far away.”
“Okay.”
I should have asked her to stay.
I thought I could handle the walls. That I’d be able to distract myself enough with packing, television, and music enough that I wouldn’t feel like I was losing control.
Tell me why I thought it was a good idea to steal a mini bottle from the plane.
Each time I pass by my mirror, I give myself a jumpscare. I keep seeing my attacker’s figure there, haunting my every move. Memories of that Halloween night are becoming more and more clear with each passing second. I wish I wasn’t thinking about it. I wish the lights on my ceiling didn’t remind me of those on the ceiling of that shitty bathroom. I wish the noise on the television didn’t sound like the dull thump of the club’s music as I was paralyzed on that floor. I keep seeing things in the corner of my eyes that aren’t there.
What’s more is that I still haven’t heard from my stalker.
And that pisses me off to no end.
Liar.
I’ll always have you.
Liar.
I’m the only one who can protect you.
Liar.
The more I think about it, the worse it gets. I’ve been pacing for an hour, staring at my phone on the counter and wondering where the hell she is. How could she abandon me like this? How could she not check in with me over the weekend? How could she not text me now?
I hate her.
I hate every second that I’ve ever let her touch me. I hate that I thought I could trust her, that I even allowed myself to believe she had me when she’s never even shown me her face.
Liar.
Liar.
Liar .
I pick my phone up and open it to text her; however the moment it hits my fingers, it begins to vibrate.
And I throw it on the ground without thinking.
UNKNOWN.
Shit.
Shit!
My hand presses to my forehead, pacing quickening. Oh god, what if it’s him? What if it’s him and not her? What does he want?
My wide eyes go to the door.
What if he’s here?!
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit .
My heart is racing, pounding against my eardrums. I can’t breathe. I just need… I need to think. I need my head to quiet down. I need quiet.
I need the edge.
Just the edge.
Just the edge.
I sit my ass on the ground and begin rocking before my feet can carry me to that bottle on top of the fridge.
“What do you want?” I answer the call.
Are those tears coming down my cheeks?
“Hello, Bonnie.”
I shudder at the noise of his disguised voice and blink at the ceiling, trying to get enough of a breath to speak. However, a noise evacuates my throat that I can’t stop. I clasp my hand over my mouth, but he catches it.
“Aw… are you okay?” He laughs. “That was a fun little taste this weekend, wasn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” I manage, spit spilling from my lips. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Oh, I think you know exactly what I want,” he says. “Did my hard cock not tell you the other night? You looked so cute trying to run away from me.”
I shut my eyes as the memory floods.
The fight. The struggle. The breaking mirror.
Frozen on my back and staring at an unforgiving ceiling, the pressure—
“Leave me alone,” I sob.
Please leave me alone.
Stop calling.
I don’t know what I’ve done.
“But this is so much more fun,” he taunts.
I sniff back my tears and wipe my face. “Do you want money?” I ask. “I can get you money. I can get whatever. Just leave—”
I scream, entire body jumping as my front door opens and shuts within the same second.
Keys toss on the counter.
A covered body slides to its knees in front of me.
And my stalker snatches the phone out of my hand.
“You’re done talking to Bonnie,” she says through her own voice changer. “Talk to me. It’s me you want, right?”
She’s here.
I can’t tell if I feel better with her here or not.
This cannot be happening.
“Oh, hello little stalker ,” he says. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
The room is spinning.
“It’s me. No more games,” she says. “If you want me, you can find me.”
Vomit rises in the back of my throat. My stomach feels like it’s about to flip. I can’t breathe, chest heaving over and over and—
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We will.”
The line goes dead.
A shriek leaves me at the end of the call. My fingers are in my hair, pulling at the roots so hard I think I might rip it all out. I can’t stop rocking, can’t stop the flooding recollections of someone’s unwanted hands, the lights, the blood, the—
“Rockstar—”
“Don’t touch me!”
I scramble to my feet and grab the nearest thing to me on the counter—a small, dull knife. I don’t care what it is. I don’t feel safe. I don’t trust her.
Where were you…
Where were you…
Where were you…
“Don’t fucking come near me,” I manage, pushing my hair out of my face.
I can hardly see her through my tears, barely able to stand on my wobbling knees. She has her hands up defensively.
“Bonnie.”
I’m struggling too much to take an even breath.
“ Where have you been?! ” I shout. “Where were you? Where were you —I thought—You said you’d be there—”
I shove her. Hit her. Slap her.
She braces her arms up against every fight and shove, and still, she doesn’t give up.
“You lied ,” I cry out. “You lied. You lied. You weren’t there. Why weren’t you there? ”
Beep.
Fuck, not now.
Not that noise now.
“ You weren’t there! ” I screech. “You said you had me. You lied!”
Beep.
Somehow, I’m back on the floor. Somehow, the knife is on the ground nearby. There’s a woman screaming in the distance. She sounds like she’s hurt. Scared. I should help her. I should get her off the floor. She shouldn’t be covered in spit, blood, and—
Someone get her up.
Someone help her. She can’t talk. She can’t move.
Why isn’t she moving?
A hand touches my arm that brings me out of the memory, and I realize it’s me screaming, it’s my memory, it’s my body.
“Rockstar,” I hear my stalker call me. “Rockstar, please—”
I swing at her.
I swat her away because right now it feels no different from theirs. It isn’t intimate. It isn’t safe.
She advances, and the more she advances, the more I sob. She’s crouched in front of me, her arms on my wrists. I think she’s saying my name. I can’t hear. I can’t breathe.
Fuck it.
I’ll give her what she wants.
Since she and everyone else is so fucking desperate.
I lean forward, shove the voice box off her face, and kiss her.
She stops moving, her mouth remaining closed, and I’m taken aback by the fact that she isn’t reciprocating.
She grabs my arms and pushes me off her.
I stare.
I stare in shock .
“What’s wrong with you?” I shout, getting to my feet. “Touch me— take me! That’s what you and everyone else wants, isn’t it? For me to belong to you? To fucking claim me just so you can throw me away or disappear later?”
She shakes her head, and I don’t know that I can do this anymore.
“I was doing fine until you came back,” I sob. “All of this is because of you . Because of what you’ve done. You’ve RUINED my life! From the very first time you showed up, things just got worse, and you threw yourself in the middle so you could call yourself a hero. You’re not a hero. You’re the villain. You should have let them finish me that night! You had to interfere. You had to stop them and hurt one of their friends. If you’d just let them get their dicks wet, this would be done! You—” I grab the lamp on my dresser and hurdle it across the room.
“Get out… GET OUT!”
I’m screaming so loudly that I can’t feel my throat, can’t hear my own thoughts.
“GET OUT!”
Get out.
Please leave.
Get out.
Get out.
Get out of my mind.
I press my hands to my temples and move my head, hoping to fuck it’ll shake out the invading thoughts, the darkness threatening to consume me. I can see her again. I see her struggling to keep her eyes open, her lips trying to move, the hoarse breath of the words she so desperately wants to say.
Stop.
Get off of me.
My head hits the corner barstool, and I completely break.
I break for the girl on the floor. I break for the helpless whispers and seconds she tried to fight back. God, she tried. She tried. She couldn’t fight them off. She couldn’t escape their greed.
I break for the one who just felt love for the first time, for the girl who just wanted her mother to be okay, and who didn’t know how to handle that pain.
And I break for the girl who still thinks she doesn’t deserve to take another breath.
I’ve hurt too many people. Lost my cool too many times. I’ve pushed away best friends and people who wanted to love me. I’m fucked up. I’m tired of feeling this. I’m tired of fighting and being told to be strong.
I want to be allowed to be weak for one fucking moment.
And I hope that moment fucking kills me from the inside out.
I barely hear the door click, barely register anything else except for how much I’m trembling and ripping at the roots of my hair.
Numb. Weak. I don’t have the strength to fight this. It’s over.
Five minutes.
All I want is to become numb.
I just need the edge off.
That’s it. Just enough to get out of my head.
Five minutes.
I can’t keep feeling all of this. It’s too much. I’m tired.
I’m so fucking tired.
Five minutes was all it took to rip everything from me.
I sniff and finally open my eyes, still sobbing and trembling as I look ahead of me.
There’s a photo of Young Decay sitting on my television stand, the rainbow logo banner from the Pride Month show we did a few years back hanging behind it. In the picture, I’m sitting on Reed’s shoulders with the flag held up behind me. Zeb and Mads are on either side of us, mouths open and chanting whatever everyone else was saying.
And something about that photo helps me breathe.
I was struggling that day, too. I was struggling because we had fans coming up to us telling us about the difference we’d made in their lives through our music, and I remember thinking I didn’t warrant any of that recognition. I was just the drummer. I wasn’t someone any of them should be looking up to. I was a fucked up piece of shit. I had ruined the lives of those closest to me. No one should look up to or thank a person like that.
And someone sat on the floor beside me that night and reminded me that I was still here. That I was doing the work and becoming a better person than the one who hurt everyone. That even though I’m ten shades of fucked up, I’m here. I have people who love me still. I may have burnt everything around me to the ground, but trust was reborn in those ashes. Music was created in those residual embers—music that would go on to heal others the way it healed us.
It was never my own willpower that saved my life.
My willpower is shit, and I’m trash.
But music? My friends? That’s the reason I’m still here.
And I can’t get out of this pit without them.
Five minutes doesn’t have to shred whatever control I have left of this life. My attackers don’t get to take my sobriety away from me. They don’t get to take the life I’ve worked so hard for.
My phone is a few feet away from me. I force air into my lungs and reach for it, stray tears still falling onto the screen as I press his number. I need the person who sat with me the last time.
My fingers are still shaking when I hold the phone up to my ear.
“Bon?”
Reed’s voice is hoarse and sleepy.
“Are you okay? What’s—”
“I need you,” I breathe, the words cracking. “The walls… I can’t…”
I don’t know how to say it, how to convey the depths of fear that’s been unlocked.
There’s a pause, a shuffle of fabric against the microphone, and the faint sound of Wren’s voice asking if everything is okay.
“Reed, please—”
“Bon, don’t move. Don’t fucking… I’m on my way,” he says in a panic. “I swear. I’m… I’ll be there.”